


Stealth

by PeopleCoveredInFish



Series: The Fortunate [2]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Martin is Awkward, Crack Pairing, Creepy Jim, M/M, Martin loves his job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleCoveredInFish/pseuds/PeopleCoveredInFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three days before his luck changed, Martin moved some computer equipment for a man named Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in awe at the positive response I received on Lucky Day. Here, as promised, is the first chapter of the next part.  
> I wrote this while humming [Do You Want To](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fNMgncH5-w&list=LLcFanDIKug00njbkbt_xspw&index=8) by Franz Ferdinand. I think you'll find it fits, so feel free to listen as you read.

Martin’s third delivery of the day is in London. The pickup is at a flat in Wembley Central, and he parks around the corner and walks up the steps, running a hand over the faded front of his shirt before buzzing the intercom.  “Yes?”

 It’s too quiet, and Martin pauses momentarily before saying, “Yes, hello, this is Martin Crieff, from Icarus Removals?”

 Another pause, and then “Right, yeah, come up.”

 The man who opens the door of 3A is even skinnier than Martin, and a bit shorter as well. His half-smile doubles as he gets a good look at the man on his doorstep, though Martin is having trouble understanding why, and he says, “I’m Jim.”

 Jim opens the door a bit wider and nods his head towards the fluorescently bright interior. Martin takes in his well-worn jeans and the tight, black tee that says _11 Cheers for Binary!_ and steps into the flat. “Martin. Is my name. Er. I’ve said that already, haven’t I?”

 "It’s alright,” says Jim, who closes the door. “It’s a nice name.”

 Martin turns around and says, “What?”

 “I mean,” Jim looks at the ground, smiling shyly, “It works for you.”

 “Really?”

 Martin realizes that he has not yet managed a sentence that wasn’t a question, and cringes inwardly. But Jim’s laughing, and it’s as soft as the words Martin had heard through the intercom. His stomach can’t decide if it should feel unsettled. “Yeah,” Jim says, and he licks his lips and looks vaguely hopeful and then he sort of flicks his head to the right and it’s gone.

 “It’s all going to my office,” Jim says, and Martin notices the huddle of computer towers, monitors, and various other forms of electronic equipment he’s unable to identify in the corner.  

 “Okay,” Martin nods, “and that is…?”

 “St. Bart’s Hospital,” Jim answers, a smooth layer of pride in his voice.

 “Oh! You’re not a…I mean, you don’t _look_ …”

 “Not a doctor, no. I work in IT.”

 “Right. That should’ve been obvious,” Martin says, before letting his eyelids flutter shut in mortification and adding, “I’m sorry, I’m sure you could be a doctor if you wanted…well, you’d have to get a degree and everything and that would take some time, and I’m not sure if you want to do that and you’d have to sit for biology exams, but…oh, bollocks.  I just meant that your shirt is…well…it’s the kind of shirt an IT consultant would wear.”

 Jim looks down, seemingly having forgotten his choice of apparel, and grins. “Not very stealthy, am I?”

 “That’s okay,” says Martin, “neither am I.”

 Jim has his thumbs in his belt loops and there’s that strange smile again and Martin realizes that he hasn’t so much come out of the closet as leapt out and fallen flat on his face, but that doesn’t matter because he has a feeling that Jim wasn’t in the closet to begin with.

 Martin clears his throat. “Shall we? I mean, shall I? No, that sounds ridiculous. I’ll just…I’ll just start putting your things in the van, if that’s okay.”

 "No, it’s fine,” Jim says, “I mean, I’ll help you. There’s kind of a lot, and it’s pretty delicate.”

 The smaller man walks to the pile of equipment and bends to lift a slightly bulky monitor. “Actually,” says Martin, and here he tries to push his pride to the back of his throat, “I have experience handling delicate machinery. Well, it’s mostly engines and wing-tips, but it’s my job. Apart from this. My real job, you could say.”

 Jim rests against the doorframe, cradling the monitor in his arms. “You’re an engineer?”

 “Airline Captain, actually,” Martin says, just managing to keep his voice from cracking with excitement.

 “Wow,” says Jim, and he does look impressed. Martin waits for the crack about his youthful appearance, that surely he must be the first officer, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Jim’s face goes oddly blank and says, “I bet you love it.”

 “I really, really do,” says Martin, wishing he could’ve held in that extra ‘really’.

 “That’s great,” Jim says, and there’s the other look, that shy smile from earlier, and he opens the door and carries the monitor down the stairs. Martin grabs one of the CPUs and follows. 

 They’ve loaded up the van, Martin being careful to demonstrate exactly how careful he could be, and Jim slides into the passenger seat and fastens his seatbelt. “It’s important to be safe,” Jim says.

 Martin stops halfway through releasing the emergency brake. A genuine smile spreads across his pinkish face, and he says, “Safety is paramount.”

 He frees the brake and the van rumbles, rolling down the street and towards West Smithfield and St. Bart’s Hospital.


	2. Chapter 2

Their arrival is met by the early dusk of an autumn afternoon. Jim has managed his end of the conversation remarkably well considering that it’s Martin at the other end. Neither makes a move to leave the van. 

“So,” says Martin.

“So,” replies Jim.

Martin drums his fingers on the steering wheel in an attempt to look nonchalant that backfires when the horn, inevitably, goes off. Jim jumps a bit, but Martin really lets loose with a squeal, his body flailing against the confines of the seatbelt and his hands flapping up towards the ceiling. He brightens to a deep fuchsia. Jim’s laughing, and his eyes are fixed on Martin. There’s a flash there of something Martin can’t quite see, something fixed and full and dark. Martin laughs along, and they get out of the van.

Transporting the equipment to Jim’s office takes five trips each, and they shift down corridors wide enough for three gurneys to pass side by side.  More than one medical personage gives Martin a strange look, but he chalks this up to looking out of place in his sweaty tee and mop of ginger curls. With the last of the CPUs deposited under Jim’s desk, the smaller man drops into his standard-issue office chair, spinning languidly as Martin leans against the wall and asks, “why do you need so many monitors?”

“I have to keep track of different things,” says Jim, “it’s my job.”

Martin shakes his head to clear a stray lock of hair from his eye. “Really? I thought IT people mainly help fix other people’s computers.”

“We do,” says Jim, still spinning, “but there’s also a lot of general maintenance and security. I’m basically in charge of keeping the networks secure.”

“Oh,” says Martin, wondering what exactly about network security would require one man to use twenty computer monitors. 

Jim pushes his foot onto the carpet, jamming the movement of the still-revolving chair. He looks pleasantly dizzy. “You know, so the wrong sort of people don’t get into hospital records.”

“People do that?”

Jim nods, solemnly. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

They look at each other. The room is just as bright as Jim’s flat, yet somehow just as dingy.

“I know what it means,” says Martin, “your shirt. I…just thought you might like to know that I understand it. The joke.”

Jim looks up at him from the chair just as Martin’s going through the second of about seven distinct stages of blushing, and he says, “Have dinner with me.”

Martin isn’t sure what to think of the man in the tight tee with the twenty monitors, but he knows they both operate machinery. “Where?”

Jim appears at his side far faster than he had expected and Martin’s almost moving to close the gap, but then Jim’s walking out the door and Martin follows.

Across town and across dishes, Jim puts his hand over Martin’s and gently flips it over, palm up. “I would’ve been able to tell.”

Martin looks at him, wonders what’s behind his eyes. “It’s that obvious?”

“Hmm, yes,” says Jim, his forefinger outlining a callus on Martin’s left thumb, “It’s written on your hand.”

“ _No_ ,” says Martin, “that’s…that’s ridiculous. Do we _all_ have them, then?”

 Jim nods, tracing down onto Martin’s palm. “Well, where’s yours?”

“Well, _I_ don’t have them, obviously,” says Jim, and Martin gapes and grips the edge of the breadbasket.

“Obviously? _Obviously?_ ”

“Well, yeah. Mine would be different,” Jim continues, that half-smile dancing across his lips again.

“So you’re not…well, _obviously_ I have been under some misapprehension, as I was operating under the assumption that this was a—”

“Occupational markers,” says Jim.

Martin freezes. “I would have been able to tell,” Jim explains, “from the marks on your left thumb, that you are a _pilot_.”

“A…pilot,” Martin repeats, “ _oh_.”

Jim smiles and rejoins his pasta with marinara sauce, the latter of which is most likely, to Martin’s great chagrin, the exact color of his own face. “But,” continues Martin in hushed tones, “you _are_ …you know.”

Jim raises an eyebrow as thin as his smile, and Martin nods. “And we don’t all have identical…”

“ _God_ , no.” 

Martin feels like he’s exhaling more air than a hairdryer. “Right. I don’t feel much like dessert, do you?”

“Sometimes, but usually when I’m sick.”

“What?”

“You asked if I felt like dessert. Avoiding the question of whether or not food is sentient, the only time I truly feel like a dessert is when I’m ill. You know, that oozy pudding feeling? Or perhaps a stuffed pastry, but gone wrong?”

Martin laughs. “Maybe coffee?”

“Oh, I never feel like coffee,” Jim confides, “but I do frequently feel like _drinking_ it.”

Martin nods and raises his hand to flag down the waiter, but Jim catches his wrist.

Quick reflexes, Martin notes.

“I especially feel like drinking it back at mine,” says Jim, fixing him in place with a look so sharp it might have been a glare if it weren’t for the undercurrent of something else Martin thinks he can identify.

“I’ve actually got to be getting back soon,” says Martin, and it’s not quite an instinct, but he knows he really, really _should_.

Jim’s running his finger up Martin’s wrist, and Martin’s not sure why, but he thinks of fire ants. When they leave the restaurant— _Angelo’s_ , Martin notes—he finds he can’t remember either of them having paid. 

Across town and upstairs, Martin’s head hits the back of the door and he’s breathing Jim and it’s barely enough and also far, far too much. He grabs at delicate, small fingers only to have them slip away and pin his own wrists to his sides. The shorter man is biting at his neck; his collarbone, sucking on his lower lip, and Martin fights back and thinks of black and blue and the heat spiraling down into his groin. He manages to break Jim’s hold and reverses their positions, slamming Jim into the door, a satisfying crack and Jim growls and Martin closes his eyes and whispers, “bedroom.”

Jim breaks from the door, pulling Martin by the wrist and his shoulder almost slips out of its socket and then they’re on the bed and Martin wonders if this is what all those shy exchanges really meant, fingers tracing the outline of bone and a bite for every blush and it’s strange, but he’s not blushing now.

 


End file.
